


Melodies

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Experiments in Alternates [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Music, John plays drums, Musicians, Sherlock's Violin, Talent Shows, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing?”“I… Well, yeah,” John blinks. “But…”Sherlock lets out a groan of exasperation. “I’m here because I know you’ll just keep pestering me about my violin playing otherwise. So can you please just get to practicing so we can both get out of here before doomsday?”AU in which Sherlock and John practice together after school on their respective instruments, as John prepares for the upcoming talent show tryouts and wonders if he can really become friends with the school's most aloof student.





	Melodies

**Author's Note:**

> I had the worst case of writer's block on this story that I have ever had. It was awful. Needless to say, it's such a relief to finally have this out, even if it was an aggravating road to get here. Hope you enjoy!

As the drumsticks twirl around John's fingers, then snap back into his palms, John grins. His feet tap to the beat, the drum pad sitting before him vibrates with the beat, and his heart soars. 

Whoever said musicians were nerds never did something like this. 

His small school doesn't have a band or orchestra as an extracurricular, but that doesn't stop him and several of his friends spending hours a week practicing. 

At the moment, however, John is alone, tucked away in a spare classroom after school. From the moment he saw the sign-up sheet for the school talent show tryouts he has spent every spare minute he can tapping away new rhythms, trying new cadences, preparing for the first live performance he will ever do. 

He executes another twirl of his stick, then curses under his breath as he fumbles it and watches it clatter to the floor. 

Then, over the sound of the stick skittering across the room, John hears something new, something distracting, something... beautiful. 

The ringing notes of music, some type of stringed instrument, makes John look up. He stops halfway across the room, hand outstretched toward the stick, and turns toward the doorway to listen. 

The strings continue, bringing forth a series of notes rising in a bold crescendo. The song is some classical piece, one John recognizes from somewhere in the back of his mind. It is bright and intense, triggering a sudden sense of excitement in John as he listens. 

Without realizing he is moving, he steps forward and opens the door. The music floods in, and John peers into the corridor. 

Where is it coming from?

The song hits a high note, which holds for a moment, then ends, leaving a ringing silence behind. 

John lets out a breath he didn't realize he had started holding. Whoever played that has more talent, perhaps, than John has in one hand. 

His admiration of the mysterious musician is cut short, however, when the door across the hallway swings open. John staggers backwards in surprise, then feels his foot catch on the fallen stick. He can do nothing but let himself fall, crashing to the floor with a curse. 

“Hello?” A surprisingly deep voice calls out from the corridor. 

“I’m fine,” John says as he scrambles up, snatching the stick that has started this whole fiasco. 

The door scoots open a bit farther, and as John glances up to face the witness to his humiliation. 

Shit. 

He knows this boy. Who doesn’t? He is practically famous throughout the school for being one of the most arrogant, acerbic students. No one wants to talk to him, and John knows he is one of those kids who sits alone in the cafeteria and in class, avoiding everyone. 

Well, almost everyone. 

He seems to almost enjoy talking to John in chemistry, after all. Well, perhaps not enjoy so much as tolerate.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock Holmes asks, a concerned frown wrinkling his brow. 

“Yeah, yeah,” John straightens. Sherlock has quite the reputation for the sharp comment, especially when someone makes a fool of themselves. From what John has seen in the past three months they have spent together, shoulder-to-shoulder at a lab table, this reputation is well-deserved. 

“I didn’t think anyone else was here,” Sherlock says, eyes widening, as he registers it is John before him. 

“Yeah, well, I wanted to practice,” John gestures over at his drums with his stick. “I’m not as good as you are, of course, but still.” He smiles. “What was that you were playing? Beethoven?” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Mozart.”

“Oh.” John shrugs. “What do I know? I’m just a drummer.”

Sherlock just looks at him, apparently unsure that coming in here had been a particularly good idea. 

“So,” John clears his throat. “That was pretty beautiful. How long have you been playing?”

“Since I was five,” Sherlock admits, a surprised lift to one corner of his lips. 

“Wow,” John grins. “That’s amazing. I mean, you sounded like a professional.”

Now a light blush is creeping up Sherlock’s sharp cheeks. “Thanks.” 

“Erm…” John is running out of things to say, but he wants Sherlock to forget about his fumble. “Sorry if my banging about in here messed with your practice. I just-”

“You’re practicing for the school talent show tryouts,” Sherlock interjects, a slight smirk on his lips. “Obviously. Half the school’s practicing for it, and the other half are envisioning themselves on stage already.” 

Sherlock cuts himself off then, biting down on his lower lip. John grins, no longer fazed by Sherlock’s deductions, which for John are now old hat. 

“Brilliant, as always. Although I like to think if I were you I would have figured that out too,” John grins. “But still. You probably could tell just from my shoes or something, right? I would have needed the drum as my hint.” 

Sherlock blushes, another familiar aspect of his interactions with John. John has never been able to figure out if his lab partner is just painfully shy when he’s not being snarky, or if it is something about John that brings out a more insecure side of the boy. 

“I’d better go,” Sherlock says, and John feels a little jolt. This is the first time since meeting the first day of the autumn term that they have spoken outside chemistry. John always assumes this is because Sherlock needs to maintain his aloof, cool manner. For while he does seem more at ease when speaking to John, he also frequently calls him an idiot. John is under no illusions; he and Sherlock are not friends. Sherlock may not dislike him as much as everyone else, but they are far from best mates. 

So John ignores the feeling in his stomach and nods. “See you around,” he smiles. 

Sherlock just darts away, unexpectedly urgent. John frowns, wondering at his hasty exit. 

What a strange bloke.

 

* * *

The next morning, John plops down in his chair in chemistry, sets his bag on the floor, and spins to face Sherlock, who - as always - is already in the classroom by the time John arrives. 

“So,” he says without preamble. “Why didn’t I know you play violin?”

For some reason he has been unable to stop thinking about it. He went home yesterday humming the Mozart piece, then spent two hours trying to find its name on the internet so he could at least listen to the whole thing. 

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow as he regards John, his default expression it seems. “I don’t play for anyone,” he replies shortly. 

John frowns. “Why not? You’re amazing.”

Sherlock scowls. “Why is it any of your business, my musical proclivities? Oh, wait,” he says, tone taking a turn for the sarcastic. “It’s not!”

Before John can reply, he turns back to their teacher, who has called the class to attention. John has no choice but to also shift his attention to her, but at the same time, he cannot help but wonder why the subject is so touchy all of a sudden. Sherlock had willingly answered John’s queries the day before. John doesn’t know what to make of this cold reception now.

He wonders if he will ever understand this boy. 

 

* * *

When John reaches his usual practice room after school, he nearly has a heart attack. 

“What the hell?” he squawks, staggering backward, a hand coming up to clutch at his chest. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. His fingers are busy twisting one of the pegs near the top of the violin, and he looks thoroughly unimpressed by John’s reaction. 

“I was unaware this room was exclusively yours,” he says, a hint of a sneer in his deep voice. “I can leave if you like.”

“No!” John pushes off the doorframe and enters the room, trying to pretend he had not been startled at all. “No, it’s okay. Just… I didn’t expect you.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock snorted. 

“Erm…” he approaches, but is not sure what to think. Why is Sherlock here?

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John, stop gaping like a moron and sit down,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

John obeys, dropping into a chair next to Sherlock. He stares. Sherlock huffs, lowering the violin to his lap and crossing his arms.    
“Aren’t you supposed to be practicing?” 

“I… Well, yeah,” John blinks. “But…”

Sherlock lets out a groan of exasperation. “I’m here because I know you’ll just keep pestering me about my violin playing otherwise. So can you please just get to practicing so we can both get out of here before doomsday?” 

Still a little bewildered, John digs out his sticks and drum pad. Sherlock looks mollified and leans back in his chair to continue tweaking the violin pegs. As John starts drumming out a particular cadence, he notices Sherlock’s toe tapping slightly on the floor to the beat. John bites down on a smile. 

After several minutes, Sherlock starts to pluck at a melody on the strings in an almost absentminded manner. John adjusts his own tempo to better match Sherlock’s, and sees the other boy’s lip quirk upward.

They both play their own separate pieces for a while, virtually pretending they are alone in the room, until John notices Sherlock has stopped his own practicing to watch John. He feels his face flushing, but continues playing until he reaches the end of the piece.

“What’s up?” he asks then. 

Now is Sherlock’s turn to imitate a deer in the headlights. He blinks and seems to shake himself, dropping his gaze to his lap. “Sorry.” 

John, once again, doesn’t know what to make of this behavior, so he searches about for something to say. “Are… are you trying out for the talent show?”

Sherlock’s prominent cheekbones turn pink. “I… I told you already, I don’t really do that sort of thing.”

“Why not? You’ve got more talent than I have in this hand.” He lifts his left hand for emphasis. 

Sherlock lets out a soft laugh. “I just… don’t play for anyone. It’s something I just do for… me.”

John can see this line of questioning is not the most comfortable one, so he lets it go. “Okay. It’s a shame, but I’ll get over it.”

His phone chooses that moment to buzz, and he sighs as he pulls it out of his pocket. “Oh, I’ve got to go. Mum needs me home to help with dinner.” 

He packs up quickly, stands, then swings his bag over his shoulder. At the last moment, however, he hesitates, looking down at the top of Sherlock’s curls. “See you tomorrow,” he says  lamely. Can’t he come up with  _ good _ lines for a change? Just once?

Sherlock nods. “See you tomorrow.” 

That evening, lying in bed, John wonders what song Sherlock played there at the end of the afternoon. He wonders why he didn’t ask. He wonders why it matters so much. And he wonders why can’t get Sherlock’s shy smile out of his head. 

 

* * *

The tryouts arrive. John goes at his appointed time, plays two songs - one on the drums, one on keyboard - and waits for an hour to find out the results. He gets his feet stamped on in the rush to the bulletin board, in a stampede that kicks into motion instants after the teacher steps out of the way, revealing a new piece of paper tacked down. He shoulders past the other students and peers intently at the list. 

He’s made it! His name is right there at the bottom, and he finds it immediately, accustomed to looking there first after years of alphabetized lists. He doesn’t bother to look at anything else on the page; he is in, and that is all that matters. 

He is in!

 

* * *

The talent show approaches steadily, all the while building excitement and anticipation within John. When he isn’t studying, sleeping, or eating, he is practicing. At home, Harry grumbles at his incessant tapping and stalks off to her room to avoid “that damn noise.” At school, he tries to be quieter in class, but still mentally rehearses whenever he has a spare moment of brain space, pattering out a beat on his leg with his pencils. 

Sherlock joins him for after-school practice sessions almost everyday now, though John stopped asking him why a few days into this new routine. He is here, and that is that. John finds, to his surprise, that he rather likes spending time with this aloof, serious boy.

In chemistry, Sherlock is all business, working with a seriousness most people John’s age can hardly comprehend. He is quiet while working on a lab, but always answers the teacher’s questions with near-book-perfect accuracy. 

However, in their practice room, John manages to coax other sides of Sherlock. He smiles more there, makes sarcastic and often sassy remarks, and even — on occasion — seems to be somewhat fond of John. 

Or maybe John is just imagining things. He can’t be sure. 

John learns little about Sherlock, but what he does discover is fascinating. He wants to become something he calls a “consulting detective,” which — after a stern lecture that almost would have been amusing had it not been so sincere — John learns is distinct from a “private detective.” His parents are kind but distant, and he has an older brother away at university in London. A city which, incidentally, is where Sherlock hopes to move when he grows up. 

John finds himself looking forward to their practices more and more, even though Sherlock frequently puts on a cold or dismissive facade. Yet John has begun to suspect that it is just that: a facade. Sherlock is either intensely private or intensely shy, or perhaps both, and the sarcasm and arrogance seems, to John, a defense mechanism. 

The day before the talent show finds them both there in their practice room again, John running through his songs one last time, Sherlock plucking at his strings and occasionally playing a snippet of song in between John’s pieces. 

“Are you going to come watch the talent show?” John asks, at one lull in their practicing. 

Sherlock’s cheeks turn pink, and he shrugs. “I haven’t thought much about it,” he admits. Then, he turns to John with wide eyes. “Wait, why? … Were you just… inviting me to come?” 

Now is John’s turn to shrug, feigning nonchalance. “If you want. It’s not like it’s a big deal.” 

“You’ve been obsessively practicing for weeks,” Sherlock points out, with raised eyebrows. 

John looks down, embarrassed. “No, I mean, it’s not a big deal if you can’t come. My family will be there, so it’s not like I won’t have any support.”

Sherlock watches him a moment, thoughtful. Then, he shrugs again. “I don’t know…” 

John swallows, masking his disappointment behind a swift return to his playing. 

Oh, well. 

He isn’t even sure why it matters, if Sherlock attends or not. It isn’t as if they are best friends. 

 

* * *

That night, John falls asleep with the last song Sherlock had played that day running through his head on a loop. 

 

* * *

 

John peers out from behind the curtain toward the crowd, some of whom are still on their feet and chattering away before the house lights go down. It’s a good turnout, he thinks. The auditorium is more than halfway full, mostly parents and siblings and grandparents, but some friends and teachers populate the place as well. 

He spots his mother and sister, waiting anxiously. Harry catches sight of him and waves. He smiles and waves back, glad to see a friendly face. He’s been nervous all day, hardly able to concentrate in class. Sherlock had been quiet in chemistry, but as they left the room at the end of the period, he had turned to John and murmured a soft “good luck” before slipping away into the crowd.

John hadn’t had a chance to reply. 

Now, he scans the crowd, giving it one last sweep for a glimpse of those distinctive curls. No such luck, though, and he bites back the taste of sour disappointment. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He retreats farther backstage as the show begins. His turn is about in the middle of the lineup, but he can barely concentrate on the first few acts. His foot cannot stop bouncing up and down against the floor, where he sits in the corridor outside the stage. His heart is pounding hard in his chest, and his lungs seem to be having to work twice as hard as usual to get him enough oxygen. He forces himself to stop tensing, and takes in a few deep, slow breaths. 

He’s played these songs a hundred times, at least. He’ll be fine. 

His name is called to get ready, and he stands, grabs his drumsticks, and lets out one last exhale. 

Show time. 

 

* * *

Looking back ten minutes later, John cannot recall the actual performance. He vaguely remembers hearing his name announced, remembers walking out onto the stage where the instruments await him, remembers lifting his drumsticks, and… that’s all. Everything is a bit of a blur, until the clear image of the crowd clapping and cheering overtakes his memory. He has done well, it seems. 

He nods at the next performer as he walks off stage, feeling as if he has lost several hundred pounds of weight suddenly. It is over, it has gone well, he survived the show! 

As the next act begins, John finds a seat near the other performers who remain backstage to watch the rest of the show. And now that his turn is over, he finds himself truly enjoying the next few performances. 

Then, with just a handful of acts left, he hears something that would have made him spit out a drink — had he been drinking something, at least.

“Our next act is a Year 12, violinist Sherlock Holmes!”

Before he is aware of having told his limbs to move, John has leapt to his feet and staggered to the edge of the stage, where sure enough Sherlock stands, clutching his violin. John gapes through the gap in the curtains as the polite applause dies down, Sherlock lifts the instrument to his shoulder, and the music begins. 

All the times John has heard Sherlock play — properly play, that is, not his scraping or plucking of the strings — he has never heard him sound like this. His body goes fluid, swaying and twisting slightly with the swells and shifts of the music. His fingers waver calculatedly on the neck, and the movements of his bow across the strings are sure and steady. 

The song is not one John knows, a moderately paced but bright tune with what sounds to be lots of complicated runs. Sherlock looks entirely caught up in the music, as if he is unaware of there being an audience at all. John watches in wonder. He knew Sherlock had talent, but this is more than that. This is passion. 

The song is long, rising and falling, speeding and slowing. It sends dozens of emotions surging through John: excitement, sadness, joy, melancholy, confusion, anxiety, happiness. He feels inexplicably drawn to the song, as if it is saying something — as if  _ Sherlock _ is saying something — John cannot quite grasp. Something just out of reach, on the other side of a veil. Something, perhaps, just for John. He does not know what makes him think that, but something about the song seems to call to him… 

But that cannot be. He and Sherlock are hardly friends. They know so little about one another, really. John has never received verbal confirmation that Sherlock even so much as  _ likes  _ him.

Yet Sherlock is here, at the talent show — performing in the talent show, even. And he is playing a song that calls out to John like the sound of his own name. 

The melody ends with a long, strong, warbling note. As Sherlock lowers the bow and nods in acknowledgement of the thunderous applause, John leans against the wall, out of breath. He feels exhilarated and drained all at once, as if the song has both given and taken away vital parts of himself. 

And all he wants to do, desperately, is get to Sherlock. 

But the other boy strides off stage on the other side, disappearing. John curses and darts back as well. With just two acts left, several of the performers are filtering out, to head for the foyer to meet their families and friends. John follows them, craning his neck over their heads as best he can. However, no sign of Sherlock, his curls, or his violin present themselves. 

He reaches the foyer and gazes around. He could have sworn Sherlock had gone this way… 

There. He spots the boy, disappearing outside. 

And he is off, dashing after him. He shoves open the door and hurries toward the car park, looking around. Sherlock has paused under a streetlight. 

“Oh,” he murmurs. In the pale yellow light, John can see the red flooding his cheeks as he drops his gaze. 

“You came,” John says, a bit stupidly. 

Sherlock nods. “I… Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had tried out too?” John does not consciously realize how much he has wondered this until the words are out of his mouth. 

Sherlock takes what feels like an eon to reply. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just…” He swallows, then lifts his gaze to lock on John’s in that piercing way of his. 

“I wrote that song-” he continues. 

“You did?” John exclaims. “That’s amazing! It was beautiful.”

Sherlock smiles and ducks his head again at the praise. “Thank you.”

“Sorry,” John grins, a little sheepish. “You were going to say something else?”

Sherlock tilts his head in confirmation, then gulps. He seems to be steeling himself for something. John waits, wondering. 

“I wrote it for you.”

John stares. “Wh-what? For… for me?” 

He hardly knows what to think. Here he has been, thinking they aren’t really friends (a quiet voice in the back of his mind hisses a soft  _ yet _ ), and Sherlock has gone and written him a serenade? 

“I…” Sherlock sounds so self-conscious, yet earnest. His tone makes something in John’s chest do a backflip. “I haven’t ever had a friend before. But you… you’ve always been nice to me. And this just sort of… spilled out. And when you asked me about why I don’t play for people, I started to think. I…” He swallows. “I think I was just… I mean, I don’t have friends. But… if someone like  _ you _ could like me…” He turns scarlet under the lamplight and trails off, eyes on his shoes. 

John grins. He thinks he has never felt so flattered in all his life. Sherlock wrote a  _ song  _ for him, which he then performed for an entire auditorium of people, knowing John was listening. Knowing it was a risk, an act of putting himself in a vulnerable position, just because of a question John had asked him. 

“That… is the most ridiculous and wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Sherlock looks up once more, eyes wide with surprise and wonder. “You think so?”

John steps closer to gaze up into the other boy’s angular face. “I know so. I… wow. Thank you.” 

Sherlock tilts his head. “You’re welcome. But really I should be thanking you.”

“What, for being your friend? Of  _ course _ ,” John breathes. 

Sherlock smiles, and they beam at one another for several moments. Finally, noises and voices from inside the building filter out to them, and John turns, breaking the spell. 

“We’d better get back. Sounds like the show’s over.” 

Sherlock nods and allows John to tug him back toward the building by the sleeve. “Is your family here?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Come on, I want you to meet them.” 

“You do?” Sherlock’s voice is laced with amazement. 

John grins over his shoulder. “Yeah, course! And after we can maybe grab a bite, hang out at my place, if you want.”

“Oh,” is all Sherlock says in reply. John chuckles. It seems, even in spite of the serenade, Sherlock has not fully acclimated to the thought of having a proper friend. 

“But I will pay you back,” John promises as they near the doors.    
“Oh?” Sherlock asks. “How so, John?”

John pauses in the doorway, facing Sherlock again. “I’ll write you a song too. It won’t be nearly has incredible as yours, but still. I’ll pay you back.” 

And as he turns to re-enter the building and tow Sherlock after, he hears the smooth baritone breath out a few words, soft and gentle. 

“You already have.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, I need your help! If anyone has any ideas for the letters V, Y, or Z, that would be AMAZING. Please leave a comment with your keyword and maybe a short prompt to elaborate if you wish. If I end up using yours, I'll dedicate the resulting fic to you! 
> 
> Edit: VYZ prompts are closed, thanks to everyone who gave me ideas!
> 
> Next AU: N for novel :)


End file.
